


May to December

by Radclyffe



Series: Consequences [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25674475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radclyffe/pseuds/Radclyffe
Summary: At the end of 'Drunks Don't Lie', Mycroft sends a text to Sherlock purporting to come from John. This is what happened next.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Consequences [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1851130
Comments: 4
Kudos: 87





	1. May

**Author's Note:**

> It may help to read 'Drunks Don't Lie' to make sense of this. If you are not into Mystrade you could get away with only reading the last 221 words of Chapter 3.

Lestrade said it was understandable that a mistake had been made, that in the heat of the moment, at a time when emotions were running high, someone might easily overlook such a trivial factor, and the error go unremarked.

Mycroft blamed the Americans, he acknowledged his own part in the incident, but mostly he blamed the Americans.

******

Lestrade succeeded in sloping of early on Friday afternoon. It was a quiet day the end of a relatively quiet week. Lestrade wondered if Mycroft had taken time to arrange that to his advantage, if not, then whoever _had_ arranged it had earned Lestrade’s gratitude. He had got away lightly after his performance the previous Friday, it turned out that a fracas had developed between special branch and forensics after he had left, and his own escapade had paled into insignificance. Only Sally had alluded to his heavy drinking at Bradstreet’s retirement do, and that seemed more out of concern than ridicule. No-one at the Yard would have guessed its life changing consequences.

From Mycroft there had been text messages and a couple of late-night phone calls, but as they had known from the outset, they were both busy men, with demanding jobs. True to his word, Mycroft had that morning sent a text with the address of a restaurant not far from Embankment station, with a reservation for eight o’clock that evening.

Lestrade had shopped in his lunch break for some new togs, and as a result he was dressed, if not to kill, at least to disarm, when he set off to meet Mycroft for their ‘first date’.

The restaurant was exclusive, intimate, the food excellent, the wine and the conversation flowed. Certain topics were off limits, much of their respective jobs, Greg’s drunken shenanigans, Sherlock, but they seemed to find plenty to talk about. Mycroft paid for the meal and demurred at Greg’s offer to ‘go Dutch’.

“Next time.”

Mycroft took out his watch. “I wonder if I might interest you in a postprandial stroll?”

Greg, who also was not quite ready for the evening to end, took the suggestion for what it was and accepted happily.

“Good, then I suggest we take a turn about the Embankment Gardens and I’ll have Sidney meet us at the other side.”

It was a mild night, and the walk pleasant. As befits a city that never sleeps, the streets were busy. The Playhouse was disgorging the evening’s audience, while the queue to get into _Heaven_ snaked round the corner of Villiers Street. Lestrade wondered what his younger self would have made of him and Mycroft, two middle aged men at the start of something new. He began to describe his early forays into the London scene, nearly thirty years ago when he had just moved up from the country. Then he noticed Mycroft glance at his watch for a second time, the difficulty with a fob watch was it was impossible to do this discreetly.

“Am I boring you?” Greg asked, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice.

Mycroft replied instantly. “No, my dear, not at all, it is merely… you will recall last Saturday morning, a certain text message.”

Greg nodded.

“I set the time of arrival for 10.30p.m. on the following Friday, 12th May, that is, this evening. Dr Watson is visiting with Harry; unfortunately, she is unwell again. Sherlock is minding Rosie so at home and on his best behaviour. An ideal time for such a text to arrive.”

Lestrade stopped walking abruptly and spun on his heel, eyes scanning the sky.

Startled, Mycroft asked “What are you doing?”

“Baker Street is roughly over there.” Greg pointed in a northernly direction. “I don’t want to miss the fireworks.”

Mycroft followed Lestrade’s line of vision, “or the controlled explosion!”

They both laughed at this, then Mycroft asked, “Night cap?”

Greg smiled and said, “Yes please.”

******

As it turned out there was no explosion, controlled or otherwise. Lestrade, in what seemed like retribution for the previous quiet week was suddenly ludicrously busy with a suspected kidnapping gone wrong and all thoughts of the text message vanished from his mind. When Sherlock finally deigned to take a look, Lestrade found him Johnless and subdued.

The case was difficult and while ultimately it came to a satisfactory conclusion, it succeeded, as nothing else had, in wiping the smile from Lestrade’s face. Sherlock seemed to be the only person who was disinterested in the Inspector’s underlying good mood, perhaps because he was the only person who could be certain of the cause. He never mentioned it, although he was quite happy to take his share of the doughnuts when the Met finally apprehended the suspect.

“No John?” Lestrade commented between mouthfuls.

“No minder.” Sherlock answered moodily, for all like a five-year-old who’s favourite blankie was in the wash.

“Everything all right between you?” Lestrade ventured to ask.

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped. “Any reason why it shouldn’t be?”

Sherlock had either seen the text for the prank it was, or had chosen to ignore it, or maybe he had even failed to understand it. Either way the joke had fallen flat, and that, as Lestrade reported to Mycroft, was that.


	2. September

Undertaking a relationship with the ‘British Government’ was something of logistic nightmare. Add the complication that the other half of the affaire was a senior officer in the Metropolitan Police Force and the nightmare assumed epic proportions.

Lestrade had not wished to become one of those individuals who abandon their old friends the instant they become one half of a couple, but with the demands of his job, his two children, his elderly mother competing with his desire to spend as much of his limited free time with his new love, inevitably some relationships did take a back seat.

So, it was with pleasure in early September, with his children, his mother and Mycroft all ‘otherwise engaged’, he was able to respond to John Watson’s suggestion of ‘going for a pint’ in the affirmative.

Lestrade had not had a proper talk with the doctor (he calculated to his embarrassment) for some four months. He had spotted him in the Yard when Hopkins brought Sherlock in on a case, and they had passed a few pleasantries outside the Old Bailey during the Rudman trial, but that had been about it. Sherlock seemed to be concentrating on private cases so appeared rarely and generally minus John who was now working in an emergency clinic five mornings a week.

The two men purchased their pints and then settled down in a booth, they commented idly on the match that was showing on the big screen the other side of the bar, but that was just a distraction and Greg knew it. He also knew what John was bursting to ask, so wasn’t surprised when the question came.

“So, how’s it going?”

Greg feigned innocence “How’s what going?”

“You know full well. Everyone at the Yard is intrigued by your indefatigable good mood, plus they all claim to have put on five pounds through the cakes you keep buying them. Sherlock reports that his brother is insufferable as ever, but even I have seen Mycroft crack a smile twice, and not his scary one either.

“So, lurve and the British Government, working out then is it?”

Lestrade was tempted to prevaricate but what the hell, here was the one person he could be honest with. “Blooming marvellous.” He announced with a great deal of satisfaction.

He took a long drink of his pint and leaned back in his seat wondering if he looked smug, he certainly felt it. He studied his friend’s face waiting for the inevitable question and hoped John wouldn’t be too crass about it. He was aware of the prurient interest bisexuals aroused even though he had not experienced it at first hand for some years. In the end he got tired of waiting for John to spit it out.

“Yes... No… No… I hope so”

“What?”

“Just saving time. Yes, I have always known I am bisexual. No, Mycroft isn’t the first. No, I don’t miss tits. Will it last? I hope so!”

“Blimey Greg”, John spluttered on his drink. “No need to be quite so defensive. I’m your mate, you don’t need to justify yourself to me, not least about this.”

Lestrade had the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I suppose I assume people will be shocked.”

“Of course, I’m shocked.” John replied in an urgent whisper. “But it’s you copping off with Mycroft that shocks me, not the fact it’s a bloke.” John took another long draft of his beer and then added, “Though perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised, there is something irresistible about a Holmes.”

Lestrade leapt on that at once, “Sounds like the voice of experience.”

“Wouldn’t you know it.”

“Seriously? Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, keen to learn more but also to steer the conversation away from his relationship with Mycroft.

John drained his glass. “As it seems we’re doing confidences then yes, I love him, quite simply… always have.”

“Go on”

“You know the score. First, he saved my life, dragging me out of the bad place I was in when we met; then he was a friend, and I loved him like a brother. Then he died and something in me died with him. Well you know what I was like…”

“Tell me about it, I was there!”

“I knew then… what I hadn’t been able to admit while he was alive, too late. But life goes on, I met Mary and I was happy for a while, even more so once he came back but then Mary died, and I was angry with them both and life itself until I saw him put a gun against his temple and I knew that if he died I wouldn’t want to go on living; even though I have Rosie now so somehow I would have had to. I can’t explain what’s changed, I can't even tell you what makes it feel so right, I only know if he as much as lifted a finger I'd come running.

“After Sherringford, he was so keen for us to move back to Baker Street, involved me in all the renovations, was so conscientious making the place safe for Rosie, I did wonder if there might be something but he’s never said a word.”

“But have you? Ever given him the slightest bit of encouragement even?”

“No, I guess not. Quite the opposite, in fact, in the past.”

“You know what the Holmes men are like, emotionally constipated. You can hardly expect Sherlock to make the first move, he's not exactly played the field, and you've never given him any indication. You need to tell him!” 

As soon as the words left his mouth Lestrade remembered with a start, the text message! The text message he and Mycroft had sent all those months ago that Sherlock had ignored. He coughed. “No forget I said that, forget all of it. I'm wrong. I shouldn't assume that what worked with one brother would work with the other. Sherlock’s a very different kettle of fish.”

John looked dubious. “You sound very sure. But the I guess you’ve known him longer than I have.”

“I’m sorry mate.” Lestrade commiserated, “but if he’s not said anything after all this time, and what with the two of you living under the same roof again, then I think you’re on a hiding to nothing, sorry.”

John sighed and picked up his own and Lestrade’s empty glasses. “I’ll get another round in… there was something else I wanted to talk to you about, though I think you may have just helped me make a decision.”

Lestrade hurriedly put his phone away as John returned from the bar, in order to give him his full attention, and waited for John to speak first.

“The thing is, I thinking it is time for me to move on.”

“Leave Baker Street you mean?”

“Yes”

“Because of your feelings? I can imagine it could be quite difficult…”

“No, it’s nothing to do with those, and anyway I’ve lived with them for months, years even.”

Lestrade took another drink and phrased his next statement carefully. “I did wonder when you moved back in if you had forgotten just how impossible Sherlock is to live with.”

“That’s not entirely fair, he’s a lot better now.”

“No severed heads in the fridge?”

“If there are, they’re down in flat C, out of sight out of mind.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Flat B just isn’t big enough, Greg, not for the three of us. Rosie comes with a lot of baggage for such a small person, and for someone who lost most of their possessions eighteen months ago Sherlock’s not been slow in making up lost ground. I’m sharing a bedroom with my two-year-old daughter, who just so happens to sleep like a cat. We none of us have enough space. If Sherlock and I were sharing a room, then maybe we might have managed… but if that isn’t going to happen then I need to find somewhere bigger for the two of us, and I need to do that before Rosie gets even more attached to Sherlock than she is now.”

“Sounds a bit drastic, mate.”

“That’s only the half of it. I’m back to the old problem about what I can afford on my army pension and what I can earn at the clinic, and whether that’s a place you want to bring up a child in. That knocks out most of London.”

“So it’s back to the suburbs for you. I can see that is a dilemma.”

“Not the suburbs.”

“No?”

It was John’s turn to take a drink.

“There’s a job coming up, in Selly Oak, Men’s surgical, three days a week. An old colleague of mine is the department head, he’s suggested an application from me would be looked on very favourably.”

“In Birmingham though.”

“I know, but my money will go a lot further there than here.”

“Does Sherlock know?”

“Not yet. But no doubt he’ll guess something is up from the way I’ve combed my hair or tied my shoelaces.”

They both laughed. “Big decision though.” Greg said sobering them both up. “Not something you rush into.”

“I've a bit of time yet,” John corrected, “the guy who is in post doesn’t retire until the end of the year. But one way or another it looks like this will be my last Christmas at Baker Street.”


	3. December

Sherlock ran a mental inventory of his available disguises while John was in the bathroom. There was a spectacularly noxious tramp who could accidentally jostle Dr Watson, covering him in something which would result in his need to return home to change. Alternatively, the elderly gentleman, who would collapse in front of John with all the indications of a suspected heart attack might do the trick. The diligent doctor would undoubtedly choose to wait with his patient for the ambulance to arrive rather than abandon him, which during the London morning rush hour would ensure a delay that would easily be sufficient to cause John to miss his train, Sherlock was willing to risk a broken rib or two to ensure success.

But Sherlock was minding Watson today, he couldn’t leave the flat without her, and he could hardly impede John’s journey in disguise with the man’s own daughter in tow.

Sherlock conceded defeat in regard to the interview and turned to speculating as to whether there was some possibility of blackmailing Mycroft into exerting his influence over the Hospital Trust. But even if he scuppered John’s chances with this particular post there would be other jobs, and he ran the risk that John might eventually be forced to look further afield, to countries beyond Mycroft’s jurisdiction. That didn’t bear thinking about.

So, Sherlock straightened John’s tie and wished him luck as he went off to catch his train, and then took Rosie to ‘stay and play’ in the local church hall. This was not Sherlock’s natural milieu, but he had managed his occasional visits so far without incident. John had at some point told the other parents, predominantly mums, that Rosie’s godfather was very shy, and he wasn’t being rude if he didn’t talk much and this had eased Sherlock’s venture into the world of toddler groups 

Of course, Sherlock hadn’t been able to resist exercising his deductive powers on the other parents (two affaires and an addiction to online bingo so far), but he kept these deductions to himself for Watson’s sake. It pleased him to see that developmentally Rosie seemed much in advance of her peers, but it somehow pleased him more that she already had one or two little friends amongst the other children.

Sherlock tolerated the other parents by maintaining a safe distance from their chatter but had recently deduced that Melanie, a newcomer to the group, kept an urban hive on her roof terrace, and this had improved his trips to stay and play considerably. Plus, the church served proper coffee and handmade biscuits.

Home he gave Watson her lunch and then settled her on his lap for a story. He worked his way through _The Hungry Caterpillar_ and was halfway through _Chicken-Licken_ when she fell asleep.

Reluctant today to put her down in her cot he manoeuvred himself without waking her, until he was flat out on the couch and lay there, the warm comforting weight on his chest counteracting the immeasurable sadness inside. Sherlock had always had a natural affinity with small children, he loved Watson, no doubt he would have loved her for being part of John, but he also loved her for herself. He found her endlessly fascinating, so much to discover in her development every day. John worried that he imposed on Sherlock when he called on him for childcare, but he couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Now the little person who had crept into his heart was being taken away and there was nothing he could do about it.

After her nap, and a short brisk walk, Sherlock settled Watson in her highchair with some play dough so he could talk to her while he did a little work on a corporate fraud case he had taken on for an associate of Sebastian Wilkes. He didn’t like the man in question, and the case was dull, but he had been offered a five-figure sum for a successful conclusion and in the present circumstances that was a sufficient incentive. Sherlock engaged Rosie in a helpful little chat about the proceeds of crime and money laundering before texting the name of the obvious perpetrator to his client.

John arrived home around six, cold and tired, just as Sherlock was giving Watson her tea. Rosie greeted her daddy with an enthusiastic wave of a bread stick, while Sherlock asked softly “How did you get on?”

“They’re going to let me know.” John replied.

Sherlock, appraised John quickly and deduced that he genuinely didn’t know the outcome of the interview. However, the detective had no doubts and said so, where else would the hospital find such a suitable candidate, a former army surgeon with battlefield experience?

John looked bashful and changed the subject “If you don’t mind giving Rosie her bath, I’ll get changed and organise a takeaway. Then I thought we might carry on with _The Force Awakens_ if you’ve nothing else planned, ready for next week. If you’re very good, I’ll even let you pull holes in the plot.”

Sherlock sniffed, he did not tend to pull holes in the plot of Star Wars, he generally reserved that pleasure for Bond Nights. Aware of John’s love of the films, he had called in a few favours to secure tickets for the premiere of the new Star Wars as an early Christmas present. John, delighted, had insisted that they both watch the whole series again to bring them up to speed. Sherlock knew what John was really doing though; John was making new memories for them both because he was going away.

******

Rosie went down quickly and was asleep by the time their Chinese arrived. Sherlock had built up the fire and the room was warm and cosy. John poured himself a beer and then served up their food leaving Sherlock in charge of the DVD. Sherlock settled in his chair, while John opted for the couch for a better view of the television. He saw Sherlock was toying with his food but noted that some was being eaten so said nothing.

They watched in silence, Sherlock bolt upright, eyes fixed in concentration trying to absorb the details of the film in case John questioned him afterwards, while John, who had seen it twice before anyway relaxed on the couch. Relaxed rather too well it seemed; while the interview hadn’t been taxing the travelling and the intensity of the day had been exhausting and soon he was struggling to keep his eyes open. To the extent that at first John didn’t hear Sherlock when he said, “I thought he died,” and he had had to ask him to say it again.

“Who?” John replied, half speech, half yawn.

“Him,” Sherlock pointed at the screen, “I thought he died in that crash.” Sherlock turned to look at John. “Are you even watching this?”

John yawned again “I’m sorry, I’d done in. Do you mind if we finish this tomorrow night?”

As Sherlock was enduring the film for John’s sake, he had no objections and stopped the DVD. He watched as John stood up, stretched and went about his evening routine, kitchen, bathroom and up to bed. It was only quarter past nine.

After John had gone upstairs, Sherlock relocated to the couch, stretching full out in the warm space recently vacated by John. The fabric retained the comforting smell of his friend, wool, antiseptic, shampoo, and Sherlock wondered for how long these traces would remain after John moved out again, then Sherlock told himself off for being maudlin. It was Birmingham, ninety minutes away by train, it only seemed like the other side of the world.

The fire had died down and with the television and the lights off, the room was almost in darkness, perfect conditions for thinking so Sherlock retreated to his Mind Palace and the rooms where he kept his information on John. Sherlock had spent a lot of time in this wing of the palace over the past years, but his visits had become more frequent ever since he deduced that John was intending to move out of Baker Street. Every nook and cranny of the rooms had been investigated fully in the hope of finding some resolution to the present difficulty, but none had been discovered. The issue was simply that John’s room would not be big enough for the two Watsons for very much longer. His own room was larger but even that wouldn’t be practical for long. Sherlock had offered to move into flat C, but John wouldn’t hear of it. Sherlock was disappointed and relieved at the same time.

It would perhaps have been tolerable if John had been intending to stay close to Baker Street, but he was adamant he could not afford to rent in central London. Sherlock had duly increased his private cases in order to maximise his earnings, but John was far too independent (proud) to accept financial help from his friend. Sherlock was also convinced that Mary had had money, her globetrotting adventures indicated this beyond doubt, but where she had squirrelled it away was a mystery. Even Mycroft had been unable to track it down.

Once again, Sherlock acknowledged they had come to an impasse, the end of the road. His relationship with the Watsons would be reduced to the occasional weekend until it finally petered out altogether. Just like before.

On the other side of the room his phone buzzed. Sherlock ignored it, the corporate banker replying to his earlier message, he deduced. It would keep.

Except that he could not ignore the phone for long as the wretched thing kept beeping at him every couple of minutes. Usually he was able to tune out extraneous noises, but this time the phone defeated him. Sherlock got up from the couch to switch it off, glancing at the screen as he did so. But it wasn’t the corporate banker who had messaged him, it was John, the John whom he believed to be sound asleep upstairs.

Confused, Sherlock opened the text and read it, then sat down in his chair with a thump. He was in shock. He looked at the message again.

**“Sweetheart, when are you going to divorce your work and marry me? JW”**

There was no mistake, John had called him sweetheart. John had asked him when he was going to divorce his work, referencing their first meal together. After all these years. John had asked him to marry him.

Sherlock didn’t know where to begin in processing this new development. He returned swiftly to the John rooms in his Mind Palace to try to get his thoughts in order, and more importantly to see how he had missed the tell-tale signs that John was about to propose.

And why now? When John was on the brink of being settled in new job in a new city? Unless… here Sherlock had a revelation… unless the actual event of attending a job interview had brought home to John just how much he didn’t want to leave Baker Street, and Sherlock. This might explain why John had seemed so deflated when he had arrived home earlier, despite Sherlock’s deduction that the interview had gone well.

“Marriage though.” Sherlock wondered aloud, that was a very drastic step.

Although their friendship had had its ups and downs, Sherlock knew that John loved him, it was an unbroken cord that ran through everything they said and did, although quite when this love had moved from the platonic to the romantic Sherlock could not fathom, but then (he admitted privately) human relationships were not his strongest suit. Naturally, John who was so much more experienced in these things would come up with the idea of marriage. He was a man for whom tradition was important, his military and medical careers indicated that. He would instinctively gravitate towards marriage even if in his choice of life partner, he was unorthodox.

Sherlock moved on in his thoughts to the next stage, married life he knew involved more than just living under the same roof, sharing bills and co-parenting, otherwise there would be no need for them to change anything. But marriage would not resolve the problem of space at 221b if he and John still maintained separate bedrooms.

Sherlock considered various occasions in their past, before Mary, before The Fall when he and John had shared a billet in some hotel or other with only one bed. It had never been an issue, inevitably it had been a case that had taken them away from home, and as Sherlock never slept during an investigation the matter of sharing the bed never arose. But Sherlock was older now, and his transport required more attention. He did sleep even during complex cases. The thought of curling up next to a recumbent John, listening to him breathe in the night, having his solid warmth beside him was very appealing, but there was more to sharing a marriage bed than just sleeping.

As to that, Sherlock might be inexperienced but was not completely ignorant. He had deduced a long time ago that John was a conscientious lover, Sherlock felt it would be safe to put himself in John’s capable hands when it came to the physical side of marriage. If John wanted him, then he would want John back.

It occurred to Sherlock that nearly an hour had passed and perhaps he should reply to John. He thought about going upstairs, but suddenly shy (although he told himself that it was due to a desire not to disturb Watson). Mind made up, he quickly typed.

**“Marriage ideal solution to present difficulties, I suggest we proceed without delay. SH”**

Sherlock pressed send and waited. He wondered if John had gone back to sleep but concluded that having sent such an important text, John would have stayed awake for the reply, however long it took. Sure enough, there was the sound of a faint rustling from upstairs and then the soft pad of footsteps on the stairs leading from the second floor.

John appeared downstairs with his dressing gown over his pyjamas, phone in one hand while the other rubbed at his face. Sherlock wondered if John had been asleep after all, he didn’t seem very awake.

“Er… I got your text.”

“Obviously, John”

There was a long pause as John appeared to struggled for words. Finally, he appeared to have decided on what to say next.

“Marriage then… You’re up for it?”

Sherlock had no hesitations. “Yes John, as I indicated in my text. Keep up!”

John blinked and rubbed his face again. “Sorry, it’s just that I’ve always thought of you as married to the work.”

“It appears that marriage has been annulled.”

John seemed to consider this for a moment, before nodding.

“Great, that’s great.”

There was another silence which seemed to drag on for an unnecessary length of time. Sherlock took it upon himself to move the conversation on.

“I thought I might engage Mycroft to make the essential arrangements regarding licences and the like.”

John nodded, so taking this as encouragement Sherlock went on “I take it then there will be no more talk of leaving, and jobs in Birmingham.”

John agreed that this was the case.

“I hope you are not too disappointed about the job, although there might be something similar in London.”

John smiled, “It’s fine, it was a good job and I liked it, but I like you more.”

Sherlock smiled too.

John moved till he was standing quite close to Sherlock, close enough to touch. “Seal with a kiss?”

“What?” Sherlock replied, startled.

“Our engagement, seal with a kiss.” John replied before promptly taking Sherlock into his arms to demonstrate what he meant.

It was a very nice kiss, Sherlock reflected, a great improvement on all his previous kisses, although as they had been exclusively case related perhaps they didn’t stand up to comparison. There was much to be said for the feel of John’s arms around him and Sherlock thought he could get used to being as close to John as this very easily. John broke the kiss, just as Sherlock was beginning to want more, which he noted as another positive sign.

“Work tomorrow, I had better say goodnight.”

“Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight… sweetheart.”

John went back up the stairs to his room, quietly so as not to wake Rosie and slowly so that he could tap out a text to Greg.

**“You were wrong, apparently Sherlock does do relationships and has proposed. Stand by to be my best man. JW”**

Meanwhile, Sherlock retired to his chair, to inform his brother of his requirements.

**“John has proposed marriage, please arrange licence for earliest available date this month and inform our parents. SH”**

******

Two miles away, in the sitting room of an elegant townhouse, just round the corner from Hyde Park, two men were relaxing on a comfortable sofa, winding down from a long and tiresome day with an excellent single malt and Ella Fitzgerald in the background when two phones chirruped simultaneously. The two men apologetically said, “I’d better check that”, and broke apart to consult their respective mobiles.

The older man read his message and burst out laughing. The younger read his own message, read it again, then looked at his companion, his face a picture of shock.

Greg managed to stop laughing long enough to say, “It seems that Sherlock has proposed to John, and John has accepted, who’d have thought he had it in him.”

“According to Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, “It was the other way round. Here”

Mycroft held out his phone and exchanged it for Greg’s and they read each other’s messages.

“Trust Sherlock to get the wrong end of the stick…, still a Christmas wedding, I’m happy for them.”

Greg looked at his own intended, noting his shocked expression hadn’t changed. “What’s the matter?”

Mycroft slapped his head. “Of course. The text, I set the due date for twelve, oh five, seventeen.”

“The Twelfth of May, I know. But it never arrived, or Sherlock never read it, we never found out.”

“Except the device uses US date settings, so the text arrived this evening, the Fifth of December. How could I have made such a schoolboy error?”

Greg smiled, who would have thought that Mycroft Holmes was fallible after all. “You did rather have other things on your mind that morning, my love. And it got there in the end, that’s all that matters.”


End file.
